


Corruption

by Menirva



Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012)
Genre: Character Death, D/s, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Femdom, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Menirva/pseuds/Menirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Blake is left very much alone during occupied Gotham. Though he tries his best to take care of others, the burden is heavy on his shoulders. When he offers to keep Miranda Tate safe, Talia is at first amused at the boy who is blinded by such false ideals. However, she sees through him to the anger he holds inside, and decides there might be merit in taking the time to mold him into something she can truly use...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Talia sighs and lets herself close her eyes, relaxes, and savors the hot flush as it spreads through her body and settles in her belly. Her thighs tremble and flex as his tongue laps slowly at her, tasting her eagerly. She gasps softly when his tongue dips into her, curls wickedly inside, seeking out her wetness, her pleasure.  
  
She gazes down from her place kneeling over him, his head against the pillow, cushioned by her thighs, held in his own proper place between her knees. His eyes are lidded, nearly shut as he works with an ardent dedication. His fingers flex restlessly on her thighs, brushing gently, massaging into her skin as she strokes through his lengthening curls. Months of this has trained him perfectly, has let her shape him into just how she desires him.  
  
When John had first sought her out, there had been a flash of wildness to his eyes, a fervor hidden under his too-calm visage, the front that he put on to keep others at ease. She saw through it so easily, though, into the turmoil roiling beneath, could smell how  his coat still reeked of smoke and explosives, how when he took her smaller hand into his own, tenderly, protectively, that it was covered in sweat. She had not known how he found her, so soon after she had left stadium, but now he was beseeching her.  
  
"Please, Miss Tate, you don't know me, but I’m a friend of Bruce Wayne’s. I'm worried if they find out you have a relationship with him, they might come for you. Let me take you somewhere safe."  
  
There was such a sense of pleading to his eyes, unashamed of begging for a greater good, him willing her to put her life into the hands of a stranger.  
  
Oh, but it was unfortunate for him that she did know him, after all.  
  
They had long ago put surveillance into the halls of Wayne manor. His visit there had been unexpected, but they had listened as the young detective spilled his heart out in earnest to their ex-brother, spurring him on to take up his cause again. It had been very helpful in ferreting him out, bringing forth his alter ego once more so that the pain might be even greater when he failed his rotting city.  
  
They had mused together that the young detective’s perceptiveness had been a mere fluke, that he was not worth the effort of taking out. Surely he was not a risk. But then, none were supposed to know that she had taken Bruce into her bed, and yet here he was, proving his perceptiveness, that he was a very cunning boy, indeed.  
  
Far too cunning to be allowed to live.  
  
She let him lead her out of the crowd. Dark brown eyes glanced back at her repeatedly, though his brow furrowed, his thin lips flashed her a small, reassuring smile. She returned it with the same measure of artificialness she found in his as she slipped her hand into her purse, traced her finger down the handle of the blade she kept there.  
  
"I'm going to take you to my apartment," he whispered, glancing around them carefully, "there's no reason for them to look there. I'll come back when I have the commissioner secured."  
  
Her fingers left the blade. Perhaps this clever boy had a use, after all.  
  
Gordon had been a thorn in their side long enough. Now she had been handed a way to flush him out. She touched his coat gently, bade him to let her help, but John would not tell her where he was going.  
  
"It's too dangerous; I need to keep you safe."  
  
He needed to keep her safe for Bruce Wayne. In his eyes, she belonged to him. It filled her with no small measure of offense on many different levels. Still, patience was something she had learned long ago. She would let the slight pass and then pluck the information she desired from him gently when he came back to her the following day. Even with his cleverness, he would suspect nothing.  
  
Then she would bleed him out, one more life on Bruce Wayne's head. One more soul that he failed.  
  
She spent the night in his small, cramped apartment while he went to secure Gordon in another. It was not what she had expected of a young man growing in Gotham. So many of them were swept up in the clutches of its greed and extravagance. Instead, it was nearly empty, nothing frivolous, nothing not needed. No pictures on the walls nor a TV, something she had quickly come to learn was considered a "basic human right" in this country.  
  
She scoffed at the very notion.  
  
Still the empty, hallowed-like quality of the apartment caught her interest, caused her to explore it more thoroughly than she might have otherwise. It was amusing, the amount of trust given to her, that he should leave her here inside of such a small private place. It did not escape her notice that it was not the commissioner brought here.  
  
She found what she was searching for tucked away under his small, well-kept bed, and she spent the evening acquainting herself with his lockbox, getting to know the curiosity that was ‘Robin John Blake,’ bits of a puzzle all neatly spread before her.  
  
Death certificates, first his mother then his father, showed her he had been orphaned young. A carefully folded letter, in it a warning from a priest, telling him that his record had been expunged due to his youth but that he must straighten up, make use of his second change. More certificates, for near endless therapy sessions for anger management, a diploma, a secondary gun to the one he had on his person, a handful of small photographs of young boys playing ball, piled onto him and grinning ear to ear as he posed with him, his smile just as wide but his eyes betraying him. The bits and pieces told an interesting tale of hidden rage, of past mistakes and a search for redemption, for something to believe in. 

 

It was no small wonder he had placed all of his faith in their ex-brother, all of his dedication into a dying city. This was a young man, more a boy than anything, caught up in a need to serve, to be part of something.  
  
Such a waste, rage squandered, stamped down to appear more 'presentable', more 'acceptable,' to attempt to find grounding in a world not created for him. It was nearly tempting to keep him, to see if he could be shown better, be guided, but he was no child and the way he clung to his badge, his hope in their ex-brother, it seemed like there must be a wall around his soul, vast and unscaleable, with no way for her to reach him.  
  
Until she saw the cracks.  
  
When he came back to her, he did not meet her eyes, his body was near rigid with tension, anger running through him like an electric current. She sat patiently, watched his every move as he barely refrained from storming around the apartment, his fists clenched tight. His gaze shot to the door frame. She could see cracks there, the faint copper brown of old blood. He was barely holding back from losing himself, keeping himself in check only because she was there, because he had made the mistake of allowing her into where he might be most vulnerable.  
  
This was the first crack. It was what swayed her to let him live for the time being. It made her realize how much sweeter it would be to take him for her own during their long occupation, something to play with during the lengthy winter. What better victory could there be against the man who stole her father than to take the light of admiration from his follower's eyes, to replace it with hate, to make them shine for someone else?  
  
And then to snuff that light out in front of her former brother's eyes.  
  
"What has happened? Has the commissioner been hurt?" She let her tone be worried, sympathetic. She put her hand to his shoulder as a test and was not surprised to see how he jerked away from the touch, his eyes flashed and nose flared before he realized his actions, tried to calm himself for her.  
  
"He's fine."  
  
She was no fool. She knew the speech her brother had carefully planned for the storming of Blackgate. She had not suspected that John would react so strongly to it, but these were two idols in his eyes, and they had come crashing down, showing him the ugliness beneath. For if Gordon was the one who had told the great lie, then it was 'the batman' who had let it spread, had done nothing to stop it.  
  
She saw how his eyes began to cloud, to fade over as he pulled the anger back into himself where it would stew, where he would cover up the cracks and become a hard shell again.  
  
She knew she must strike while the coals were still hot in him or she might miss this opportunity forever.  
  
She took his chin, her eyes piercing into his, and it was a risk, to let him see the power she held, that she was so much more than the Miranda Tate façade, but it was needed.  
  
"You are upset; tell me what is wrong." It was an order, calm, commanding, the same tone she had used countless times to guide the league. She knew he was not one to blindly follow command, but if there were reason, if it were coupled with something he rarely received, tenderness, affection...  
  
Then the boy longed to serve.  
  
She stroked his cheek gently, a soothing caress, one she would share with few, with Bane after a long day’s work, with Barsad after a harsh night.  
  
It was as though she crumbled his resolved to pieces with it, brushed it away with the back of her fingertips. The anger was back, tangible in the air, and she took it for her own. It was not hard to coax him to sit, to strip off his jacket, still stinking of smoke, and discard it so he was closer to her when she guided him to lean.  
  
He was hesitant, guarded more than most even in this moment of weakness, but with careful prodding she made him speak, listened to the bitterness of his words, the shaking anger of his tone. It was almost beautiful; she encouraged it, nothing to make it seem too obvious, gentle questions, little tugs at his thoughts.  
  
"They betrayed everything they stood for," he finally said, sounding tired, lost, and alone when she decided he was unguarded enough to slide her fingers into his hair. She saw his hand curl in on itself and she took it, let him hold onto her.  
  
Five months was plenty of time to build him into something new when he was so willing to hand her all of the pieces she needed.  



	2. Chapter 2

And so while the rest of the city scrambled to suckle on hope, John was fed truth, so thick and heavy on his tongue that he nearly choked on each swallow. She told him each thing she saw when she went out, how every creature had turned on each other, how they clawed at one another for goods that meant nothing now, how bodies littered the streets and others were rounded up for slaughter. She knew he saw these same things, but to hear them from her was something different, it broke down something in him, it made them unable to be ignored.  
  
When she sighed and looked out of the now broken window of the small apartment, she voiced a small thought, planted a tiny seed.  
  
"Sometimes, John, I wonder if they are not right, if Gotham is truly not worth saving."  
  
It was such a small, fragile thought, but she has planted it on good dirt, had cleared the weeds from the foundation.  
  
He shook his head, put a hand on her knee and sat beside her, but the seed had already been planted now, and as the days passed, she watched it take root. She watched how his face changed, how the chalk she once saw him leave with each morning was left on the kitchen table. He was beginning to see the rot, how Gotham was practically a corpse now, withering away before their eyes.  
  
It had been the league’s intentions, after all. For Gotham to truly be an example, it needed to be shown that its people deserved their fate. The evidence of this was being seen more and more each day. Soon, the media would no longer pity it. Soon, those who watched would be quietly grateful when Gotham was nothing but ash, cleansed by fire. Others would learn from its mistakes and would escape a purging fire of their own.  
  
But John still needed persuading. He was so desperate to serve, and now that he was pulling away from serving Gotham and its inhabitants he was restless; the wild look in his eyes was back. He was losing his grip on his place in the world. Now Talia would give him handholds, places to grasp and re-find his grip so that he might climb.  
  
"Come to bed, John." They were simple words, and she had said them each night as she gave his hair a soft stroke. They could be taken as innocently or licentiously as he would like for they are just another step for him, something to guide him onto the proper path. He had demurred each time though, insisted on sleeping on the hard couch though each morning he woke sore and twisted up in the feeble threadbare blanket.  
  
"John, it is so cold, come to bed," she whispered it this time and could see her own breath puffing out in the air. There was no heat and winter had come early. "Please."  
  
It was easier to come when he told himself it was for her. He pressed so close to her in the dark, though, nearly greedy for her warm touch. She knew he had wanted to say yes for weeks now, but had held onto some sense of 'propriety'. In his eyes, perhaps, he still thought of her as Wayne's, and though the batman was no longer something that filled him with wonder, was now merely another man that had let him down, he had still shied from her touch even while he longed for it.  
  
When she woke, his face was against her stomach, his chilled nose tucked against her skin just where her nightshirt had ridden up. His arm had curled around her waist and now he held tightly onto her, as though she was all he had left in the world to give his life stability. He was caught up in her grasp, now.   
  
He made a sleepy noise, squirmed and nestled into her. She stroked his hair, and when he woke, there was the briefest flash of near overwhelming gratefulness in his eyes. It was gone in an instant, though, pushed down, perhaps out of embarrassment, uncertainty. He left for the day and she watched him go without a word.  
  
She didn't need to follow him, she had men for that.  
  
She knew he had been lessening his visits to Gordon and the other officers. The messages he had been sending down into the sewers were fewer and fewer. Now when he went out it was to forage, to visit the boys in the home. His care for the children was innocent enough that she allowed him to keep it, though she knew how to turn him away from there if she wished, as well. So many adults resided there now, so willing to betray for little more than scraps of food, and children could be so cruel. It would not be hard to turn them against him, just a few carefully placed words.  
  
She decided it was not needed. Perhaps she had gone soft. Too late she had realized those angry brown eyes had beguiled her. She found that she no longer wished to end him with Gotham, to snuff him out as another piece of revenge against Wayne. She wanted to see him rise with them, for him to know family, to know what true justice was, what protection and closeness to them all would give him.  
  
It was not hard to coax him into the bed, anymore. He wrapped around her tightly each night, and she rubbed the tension from his body, whispered against his ear.  
  
"Tell me about your family, John."  
  
He didn't want to, but he was trapped in her, the longing in his eyes grew each day, coupled with his shame of it, to need her so desperately, to have her slowly becoming his world. It would not be long.  
  
He told her what little he remembered, every single tiny detail he could pull from cloudy memories. He whispered them back to her until his voice was raw and she took them from him, stroked his cheek when his voice cut off.  
  
"Shall I tell you about my brothers?"  
  
When he nodded, his hair tickled her stomach through his thin t-shirt that she had taken to wearing to bed. She told him of them, their sweetness, their devotion, the safety and belonging that came with family, something John had been searching for for so long, and she could see how his eyes shined in the dark, hungry while she filled his mind with such ideas.  
  
"We protect one another, always, John. Even when I cannot see them, I know they are keeping me safe. They would fall in love with you, were they to meet you."  
  
"I'd like to, if I could," his whisper ghosted across her skin and there was a mixture of longing and envy on his face when he fell asleep that night.  
  
It only took one more bad day for his walls to go from cracks to a crumbling pile at her feet. She was not even certain what had triggered it, but when she came home from the cold of the outside, he was already sitting on the bed, hanging his head in his hands and looking so young and weary. When she went to him, he wrapped his arms around her waist without a word, held onto her tightly while she pet through his hair and made a soothing noise.   
  
He buried his face against her, inhaled deeply, long, slow breaths before a sudden shaking trembled through him. He did not cry, but she was certain it was a near thing when she forced his head up to face him.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
He shook his head. "I don't—I just, I'm so tired of it. I'm tired of going out there and seeing it all." His voice sounded thin, worn.  
  
She sat down beside him, cupped his cheeks and watched him close his eyes, how his head dipped into her hands, knowing she would hold him, offer her strength. It was time.  
  
Kindness did not come easily to her, but when it was her family, when this was one she had taken for her own, she found it could come if she worked towards it, if it was needed. He was startled when she let go of him, placed her hands onto his shoulders to guide him to recline back on the bed.  
  
"Lie down, John."  
  
He obeyed as she knew he would. He wanted her, would never express it, would never ask, would not dream of demanding, but she had felt his hardness against her on more than one occasion while they lay together on his cramped bed. He would always shy away then, embarrassed by his body’s honesty, but she would press closer, not let him rest until he was settled against her, aching for her. It did not escape her how every morning, when he woke with his face buried into her stomach, he had shifted just a little bit lower in his sleep, waking with his head at the dip of her hip more often than not, now.  
  
He watched her while she stripped off her coat, let her hair down from the tight braid she wore out in the streets, so that when she leaned over him, rubbed a thumb across his cheek, her hair fell around her face in waves, tickled across his cheeks as she watched his eyes.

She did not kiss him. He was not fully hers, yet, and she would not do so until she was certain. A kiss being something she held dearly to her heart, something she had hated giving to Wayne more than her body, knowing the true value of them when the one she held most dear to her heart could not give them without the sacrifice of pain.

Instead, she stroked her hands across his chest, felt his breathing flutter through it nervously. She had no doubts that he had been with women before, but this was something different, and he could sense it, was pulled to it even while something in him rebelled, something that clung to Gotham, but it would be let go soon enough. His hands reached for her, not demanding but not gentle. He needed her and he could no longer fight himself.

“What do you want, John?” she murmured softly as she ran her nails across the tendon of his throat.

“I just,” he closed his eyes for a moment, “I just want to forget this place… I just want to be with you.” It was as raw as a fresh wound and it sealed his fate. He was hers, and so she took him.


	3. Chapter 3

He had to be taught. It was unsurprising. She knew well enough how little men were taught to pleasure a woman, and she found she did not mind the undertaking when there were such rewards for it, when he was so very eager to learn. His eyes watched her with a great yearning as she slowly peeled off her blouse, sliding the thick pants she had worn out to protect from the chill over the slight dip of her hips. When her fingers traced over the curves of her breasts, she saw how his own shifted slightly on the blankets.  
  
"Would you like to touch me, my pretty bird?"  
  
His eyes flared up at the endearment. He knew that she knew things that she should not, that he had opened himself to something that was spiraling out of control for him, but she knew she had him already caught up, that it was far too late for him to slip from her bindings. So when she took up his hands, he didn't shy away, his breathing sped up when she guided them to her breasts, only encouraging when he touched them with a sense of reverence. She sighed and guided him to circle a finger around her nipples; his calloused touch was uncertain but eager, and so much like her brothers' that it was quite welcome, the soft brush making warmth pool down slowly in her belly.  
  
She let him explore there, touch and cup his hands over her as she climbed onto him slowly, settled herself so she was straddling against his hips for a moment. She could feel his heat through her panties, his growing desire for her straining his pants and brushing warmly against her. When she rolled her hips forward slowly his head dropped back onto the pillow and a soft moan left him. She could not resist tracing a nail over the soft pink curve of his lips, a temptation to kiss his pretty mouth growing in her, but she did not take it, not yet.  
  
Instead, she curved forward, guided her breasts down to him, felt them nuzzled tenderly as she bracketed her arms around his head, her elbows sinking into the bedding as his tongue found her peaked nipple easily enough, flicked out over it before he sucked at it gently, worried it between his teeth with a delicateness that would almost offend her if it did not amuse her, did not send gentle curls of pleasure down her body.  
  
She let him have his fill of her there, the occasional slow slide of her hips would make him shudder, a moan leaving him and tingling through her breast in return. He was so hard against her now, but he never took what she did not obviously give. His hands never went to her hips, his own never tried to arch up at her to grind against her panties, though he had to have a growing ache building in him by then. She found such subservience was precious.  
  
Her own desire was growing, as well, her wetness starting to seep through her panties when she took his hands, bunched up in the blankets, and guided him to hook his fingers around the material, sliding them down to her thighs before she slipped them off.  
  
Oh, he wanted her; she could not help but chuckle softly, earning a slightly sheepish look from John when he realized he had been staring at her.  
  
"You're beautiful," he admitted quietly. "Sorry, it’s stupid. You probably hear that all the time."  
  
It was true, but her little bird could not know that it meant next to nothing from those from whom she heard it, and that when it was said sweetly and earnestly by him it sparked a rare bit of tenderness in her heart. She touched his cheek a moment, shaking off her sentimentality then, pushing his shoulder so that he was lying back more again, reclined slightly on the pillow.  
  
She rose up off of his hips and stood over him for a moment, watching in amusement when she walked up his body, her feet on either side of his head, and he realized her intentions, swallowed almost nervously. His eyes were unmistakably eager, however, when she lowered herself down slowly, feeling his hands slide up the back of her thighs, brushing over her ass as the lips of her pussy slid smoothly against his mouth.  
  
He licked out without prompting, messy, quick, sending a slow shiver through her as he lapped at her overeagerly. Her fingers twisted into his hair and she pulled, a throaty moan leaving her lips as his gaze went to her, so wanting to please.  
  
"Slowly; there is no rush, my little bird. I will keep your pretty face between my thighs all night until I am satisfied," she promised, and his eyes lidded in response to it.   
  
He kissed across her mound then, slowly, his tongue tracing leisurely along her lips. She dropped her head back, sighing with pleasure at the steady warmth building, gasping when he began to lap at her slowly, his tongue sweeping across her entrance, up and in an unhurried circle around her clit.  
  
She bit her lip, feeling her body begin to break into a sweat as his tongue snaked into her slowly, her juices dripping down onto it, and he sucked there, making her hips rock down eagerly.  
  
She felt heat racing through her body as she ground against his lips, as he groaned under her and thrust his tongue into her as deeply as he could, a noise of complaint whining out of his throat when it was not as deep as he would have liked, when he could only bury himself so deeply into her, drown in her taste and pleasure so much, when he wanted to be able to completely lose himself in her.  
  
She could feel her orgasm building, all of the heat in her belly drawing up tight. When his lips pursed carefully around her clit and he sucked gently at the little bundle of nerves, her orgasm rippled through her, a hot pulse of pleasure throbbing through her pussy and radiating outwards. She moaned through it, hearing the wanton, fulfilled quality to her own tone. Her nails dug into John's scalp as he licked her through it, placed a delicate kiss over her lips, his own breathing heavy, his mouth soaked and glistening from his efforts.  
  
"Do not think," she murmured softly when she caught her breath, "that I am done with your mouth."  
  
She did not miss the way his eyes sparked at the thought, the obvious satisfaction she found with him settling him, making him desperate to prove his worth to her, that he was not something to be abandoned.  
  
He did not understand, yet, that she had no intention of ever letting him go.  
  
She rode his mouth and tongue through several more breathtaking orgasms, until her sweet little bird's tongue had to be sore from overuse, his breath coming in quick pants, but he never voiced a word of complaint, took every instruction beautifully, determined to please, to satisfy her. She patted his cheek, finally, tracing over the shining mess on his lips. "Wonderful."  
  
"Was it enough?" he asked roughly, and she almost laughed at his genuine worry.

 

Feeling kinder, though, with pleasure still thrumming through her body, she nodded. "You were wonderful, Robin."  
  
Her answer relaxed him, let him settle back onto the bed as she climbed off of his face, settling onto her knees beside him, her tongue clicking in amusement at how he looked as though he was ready to burst through his jeans without a single touch. He looked almost embarrassed about it, licking his lips and sitting up quickly.  
  
"You don't have to—I'm sorry, just ignore that."  
  
She marveled quietly that no one had found this precious gem in Gotham, so full of a need to serve above all else. She considered him a moment, debating on whether sending him to sleep with his cock aching between his legs would be more or less beneficial than having him spill as he thought of her.   
  
"Let me see it," she said finally. Her answer seemed to surprise him, and she wondered just how much of her true self her clever little bird had been able to discern during their time together that he recognized that she had no qualms with cruelly sending him off without any sort of fulfillment. Perhaps he had been learning just as much about her as she had been him.  
  
And yet he had not run. Such bravery surely deserved a treat of sorts.  
  
He obeyed her quickly, unzipping and hissing at the suddenness of that pressure being gone as he guided his cock out, swollen and a blaringly desperate shade of red.  
  
"Touch it for me," she ordered as she slid behind him, propping her head on his shoulder so she could view how he wrapped his hand shakily around himself and stroked, a low whine ripping from his chest at the sudden pleasure twisting through him.   
  
"C-Can I?"   
  
She chuckled softly at his cleverness in asking. "You may; let me see."  
  
It only took a stroke or two more before he whimpered with relief, his throat bared as he arched, his seed pulsing out thick and hot between his fingers, dripping down his knuckles. His face was beautifully debauched, nearly glowing.  
  
It was then that she could no longer resist. She cupped his cheeks and turned his head, catching up his still-parted lips for a possessive kiss. She tasted herself on his lips as he went from a sudden stilling to kissing back passionately, though pliant for her, taking whatever she gave, sighing when her tongue slid against his, teasing it for moment before pulling back.   
  
They didn't speak after, only cleaned up together and turned in early, the darkness of winter and lack of electricity meaning there was little else to do when sundown came. That night, she did not have to tell him to come to bed; he wrapped his arms around her in the dark and he held onto her as though he would drown without her. Perhaps he was twisted up so deeply in her waves now that he would. She had decided already, though, that she would not let him sink.  
  
It became ritual, each time they came home to each other. Her pretty bird would come back from scrounging for supplies—no more messages to the cops, no more chalk on the walls, only the occasional visit to his orphans—and she would return from seeing her brothers, making arrangements, telling them of the precious new brother she was molding. He would greet her quietly, a small dip of his head, the weariness of the city in his face and shoulders. She would touch his cheek, guide him to the bed where he was so happy to be able to please her, sometimes dropping to his knees at the bed and kissing her thighs, silently pleading with each kiss to her thighs and knees that he be allowed to bury himself between her thighs, to be allowed to lose himself to her, her power, her guidance, her possessiveness, and each time she would let him serve her as he needed, showing him each touch that pleased her most, taking his mouth, his fingers, riding his tongue to a pleasurable exhaustion.  
  
As she is, now. She brushes away the sweat-soaked bangs from his forehead, moans at the lurid slurp he gives, the messy lick over his own lips as he stops only a moment to pant for breath.   
  
She often has him stay dressed for it, only letting his rigid cock free from his pants after she is satisfied, or, when he seems especially settled and docile, not even that, only sending him to bed and enjoying the way he burrows even more tightly against her in his overheated desperation for release until sleep finally claims him.   
  
Today, though, she has stripped him down to his briefs, enjoying how he tents them, reaching behind herself on occasion to run her nails across his length. The first time, her Robin arches in pure shock, a whimper leaving his throat a moment later when she squeezes tightly over the tip of him in reprimand. She gets a quick, fervent apology, so genuine that she forgives him with a stroke to his forehead.   
  
Besides, his reaction makes her feel playful. Her boy is nearly perfect at this, now, but that is no reason to not work for improvements. She slips him from his briefs and she sees the surprise in his eyes, the heated moan vibrating against her when she wraps her hand around him.  
  
The angle takes some careful balance on her part, to keep a tight grip on his hair, another on his cock, but she manages, of course, and uses it to teach him. Each time his clever tongue twists just how she likes, he is rewarded with a slow caress up his length, any flagging or faltering on his part punished with a scrape of her nails across him. He whimpers equally for both, is leaking down against her fingers, and she rubs it into his heated skin.  
  
"Faster," she orders, and it's obeyed with a dazed nod, his tongue flicking across her lips, sweetly drawing over her clit where he places a loving kiss. She feels the heat building inside, knows she is close, and is tempted to bring him off with her, having found his lost look of pleasure to be something very sweet, indeed.  
  
"That's it," Talia coaxes with a murmur, "you'd like to come with me, wouldn't you, my sweet Robin?"  
  
She pulls at his hair when he gives a quick hopeful nod, never having been offered such a treat by her. The grateful look in his dark eyes cinches it for her, and when her orgasm snaps through her, she cries out her little bird’s name, knowing well it will be his undoing. He stiffens under her and shudders, his hot seed suddenly pulsing out of him, slicking her fingers. She tugs sharply on his hair, grinding her hips down through the pleasant aftershocks of her orgasm and sighing out at his muffled noise of contentment.  
  
She graces him with another kiss to his slicked lips, truly spoiling him, but perhaps she feels the need as their time in Gotham is beginning to draw to a close. 


	4. Chapter 4

Talia wakes up in the night and notices his warmth gone from around her. She sits up and pulls a sweater on before she leaves the small bedroom and finds him sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, weary but wide awake. He knows she is there watching, but says nothing until she is closer, placing her hands on his shoulders and leaning against his back.

He says nothing still, long moments passing in the dark before his head drops more and she runs her fingers down the back of his neck. Were it not for the complete silence, she would have never been able to make out his choked whisper.

"Are you really going to do it? Push that trigger and kill us all?"

She isn't surprised. He has always been too clever for his own good, has sensed something dark in her even in his yearning to serve; perhaps truly there is enough dark in him that it was what drew him to her to begin with.

"How long have you known?" she asks, her fingers still at his neck, knowing if he has not shied away from her touch even now, he may never again.

"Long enough," he mumbles tiredly, a tone of self-loathing in him, "and I didn't do a damn thing, not a damn thing."

"Then why now?"

"There's a time limit.” His hands clench uselessly. “Gordon found me while I was out, told me about it. Weeks, there's only weeks left."

"For him, for this city? Yes," she tells him unrepentantly. It explains his sudden apprehension. He had been content to let it carry on as it was, to let her men rule the city, but now he knows it will all end in a purging no matter what.

"What about for me?" he asks, finally turning to face her. His face is all uncertainty, his dedication to her and what is left for the people of this city at war inside as though he is uncertain what he would rather her answer be.

"Oh, Robin,” she touches his forehead, watches his eyes close tightly, "you are no longer part of this city. You belong to me."

His fists clench tighter, anger in him always, but now it is directed inward, and he is not even sure where to guide it there. Oh, how it hurts him, but he is so entirely hers now that she has only to guide his head to her to feel his face against her stomach and his arms wrapping around her desperately, for it to drain out.

"I want to be. God, I just want to be, but I can't, I can't, the kids—"

There is a flicker of annoyance that runs through her, but she dismisses it. This is the one thing that Robin will not give up on, and she knew that from the beginning, planned for it, and has chosen to let him keep it, for a price.

"I can save them, my Robin, for you."

His fingers dig into her back as the meaning of her words sinks in. "Only them." He realizes that the city will indeed burn and there is no way he can stop that.

"Only them," she agrees. "And only for something in return."

"Anything." He promises it quickly, desperately, not knowing yet what he is agreeing to do, but in it she knows he is also agreeing to give up Gotham and all those who will be left to feel the heat. “Just… anything. I can't let them die.”

She is tempted to have him push the trigger himself, but she thinks that she may have another task for him if her reports from outside of Gotham are true.

Instead, for now, she tells him nothing except that she will take the children out of the city as a sign of good faith between them. She lets him watch as they are smuggled out in empty supply trucks, little by little until the boy's home is emptied out, the relief clear in his eyes when the last child is shipped off.

The timing could not be better, and she knows what she wants from him will seem impossible, but flight seems impossible to a fledgling until they are given the proper push.

"You will know when the time is right," she tells him instead when he asks again, and she plans carefully, so very carefully until there is only one night left for Gotham.

He is tense, full of worry for her, for what he knows will happen, and there is a burden in his eyes even though she has told him that there is nothing he can do to stop it. He knows it, too, though he knows why the city must burn. He also knows that if she even thinks he is trying to help the police, to stop it, that she will push the button without a second thought. He would be killing her, and he cannot stand the thought.

"Where are we going?" It is dark and she has woken him from an uneasy sleep against her side. He had not understood why she told him to sleep when there was so little time left, but he had curled against her.

"Evacuation. Our means of escape has been hidden away all of this time right above the polices' heads."

"At the outflow," Robin guessed cleverly, and she nodded in agreement, tucking a red scarf around his neck to mark him as one of her own, not wishing for any accidents among the guards.

It is convenient that their ex-brother needs to make his way to the outflow, as well, to try to rally his own army.

"Why don't we just leave?" Robin asks, his confusion and impatience clear in his tone. "If we wait too long—"

She patiently silences him with a hand to his shoulder; it is all she needs to calm him and make him lean in closer to her.

"Soon. There is only one thing more to take care of. You will go now to one of the men, Kojo, and ask him if everything is prepared. Quickly now," she hurries him and sees him run off closer to the encampment, just in time as she watches the subtle hand signal of one of the guardsmen only a moment before he suddenly slumps over unconscious and out of their view.

She cries out for help, knowing her men will ignore such a thing as something she would never do. It does not take long, though, for the Batman to respond instead, for guards to surround him. He takes them out with swift punches and kicks, disarming guns, knocking others to the ground. 

When he reaches out for her, it is the greatest temptation to bury the knife in her hand into his ribs.

Instead, she screams when she buries it into her own, lets herself fall to the ground, prone under Wayne as sharp pain flashes through her.

She pulls out the blade and blood seeps into her hands as she pushes it into Wayne's. It is a simple ruse, something that, with a clear mind, her clever little Robin would see right through in moments.

But her little fledgling needs the push before the flight, and his rage will hold back clearer thoughts. He longs to serve, and now she will help him, cement him as theirs forever.

When Robin runs to her aid, sees them, the pain in her face and the knife in Wayne's hand, it is more beautiful than anything she could have hoped for.

She watches as he burns for her, all of his rage springing forth and devouring Wayne. The knife in his hands ripped out by her Robin, brought down again and again into the vulnerable joints of Wayne's suit. Wayne is too surprised by the betrayal to react in time. Blood bubbles out of his lips as confusion and pain claim him, her pretty little bird’s final sacrifice to her.

Red is sprayed across Robin's features, it soaks his hands and drips from the knife as his head drops down, as he lets the sharp blade clatter.

She stands slowly. The pain in her side is sharp still, but it was a careful cut, nothing she will not recover from, and it takes him only a moment of clarity for him to understand what has been done. 

He closes his eyes tightly, the rage already sapped out of him, and he only chokes back a guilty sob, instead.

"Is that it? Is that what you wanted?" he asks tiredly, bitterly, and she takes his head, guides it to her shoulder, feels him nearly collapse on her, holding onto her so tightly it cuts into her would, but she does not let go. "Can we just go away, now?"

She hums softly and nods, carding through his hair soothingly. "It's time to go home to our family," she agrees quietly.

She nods to the men surrounding them, standing and taking up their arms again before they go along with her. There would be no more need to guard the outflow any longer. She sees that the men are boarded onto one of the stealth planes hidden away for them, and shakes her head when Robin looks at her questioningly.

"Not for us." Instead, she leads him to a helicopter, for her family has designed it so that they might have a bird’s eye view of the purging.

She climbs into the helicopter and holds her hand out for him, watches him reach for her and then freeze. 

She hears the low hissing chuckle from the seat across from her as Bane leans forward and catches up her little bird's jaw, studies him with a great curiosity as he is as still as though he is caught up in a steel trap.

"Come along, little Robin; welcome home." His voice has a rare tenderness in it, something she has only heard with them. His finger strokes once against his lips and he lets go of him, letting him climb in cautiously and sit beside Talia.

He gasps when he is caught up for a kiss and slender fingers cup his face, beard brushing over his cheek.

"Welcome home, little brother," Barsad breaths out against his lips, placing a gentle kiss there again before he settles back beside Bane.

Talia holds back a small laugh at the surprise in his eyes over the warm welcome. But he is family now, theirs as much as hers, and he will learn it well enough.

Barsad tries to see to her wound as soon as they are up in the air, but it will wait. She would sooner bleed out than miss the view. When they are cleared for distance, she takes the trigger from her pocket.

Bane's hand goes to hers and she takes it, squeezes his thick fingers in a wordlessly understood thank-you for all he has done to ensure that her father's work has been completed.

"Do you want to watch, Robin?" she asks quietly and is unsurprised when he shakes his head quickly, seems horrified at the thought, burdened still. Everything below them now is behind him though, and she will see to it that it becomes nothing more than a blurry bad memory, a trial he had needed to endure just as they all had before they gained one another.

She has him keep his eyes on her, instead, as she presses the button. Even turned away, she knows those sweet, angry eyes are locked onto her as she pushes the trigger and watches the destruction of the rot and decay behind them. 

When it is done and she can see the ash in the air, she finally lets herself sigh and drop back into her seat more, allowing Barsad to treat her wound while Bane slides an arm around her shoulders to keep her warm and Robin watches the blood seep out with worried eyes.

"Help me, little brother.” Barsad bids him to kneel down on the cramped helicopter floor beside him, to hold a flashlight close, knowing that it is best to keep him occupied, giving him a quick and dirty lesson in medics and patching someone up with a kit. 

"There, we have fixed her up," he assures him quietly and brings his hand up to let him touch the bandaging delicately.

He is hesitant over being touched by them. It will pass; soon he will yearn for it as much as he does for hers. For now, she guides his head to her lap, and he stays kneeled on the floor, pressed tightly against her legs and sighing out when her fingers sift through his hair, when Bane's hand rests warmly on his shoulder, fingers exploring across his neck, and Barsad stays on the floor pressed up beside him, pulling some quiet conversation out of him, all of them reassuring their newest in their own manner that he has found his family and that he is now home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://relevantlyirreverent.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone was curious, I'm going with the idea that in the scene with John and Gordon they are not in John's apartment. It's a pretty nice apartment they're in for a rookie cop, so I've decided they are somewhere else laying low.


End file.
